The Coward Never On Himself Relies, But

But Jest Apart--what Virtue Canst Thou Trace In That Broad Trim That Hides Thy Sober Face? Does That Long-skirted Drab, That Over-nice And Formal Clothing, Prove A Scorn Of Vice? Then For Thine Accent--what In Sound Can Be So Void Of Grace As Dull Monotony?

Wine, Like The Rising Sun, Possession Gains, And Drives The Mist Of Dullness From The Brains, The Gloomy Vapor From The Spirit Flies, And Views Of Gaiety And Gladness Rise.

Our Farmers Round, Well Pleased With Constant Gain, Like Other Farmers, Flourish And Complain.

Life's Bloomy Flush Was Lost.

Better To Love Amiss Than Nothing To Have Loved.